Hello Loved Ones

by Tammy Letherer

  “What will he think of me?” she whispered, not sure who she meant. Richard? Cash, or Pastor Voss? Maybe Lenny. Maybe all of them.

  Beth Anne patted her arm, startling her. “The doctor?” she said. Yes, him too! “Why, he won’t think a thing. Will you, doctor?”

  Sally’s eyes flew open. There stood a man in a white coat, his hand on the open door.

  “Nope,” he said with a grin. “We’re not allowed to think.” He chuckled heartily.

  Oh. He was one of those. The kind who think a dumb joke will put a person at ease. Sally’s cheeks burned as the doctor turned and, serious now, took a pair of rubber gloves from a small cardboard box on the bureau. The room grew very quiet. The only sound was her own thumping heart and the squeaky pull and pop of rubber as the doctor put on the gloves.

  Stepping close, he said, “Move your bottom down please. A little more.”

  She fought another wave of nausea and did as he asked. When his hand touched her there, she flinched.

  “Relax. You’ll feel some pressure.”

  Cold metal pierced her and she clutched at the white paper beneath her, her breath coming in short, noisy bursts. A tear rolled down her cheek and landed in the corner of her mouth. Its saltiness brought to mind oceans and earth and all things natural. There was death in nature. And destiny. Her mother knew it, too. Clearly, she saw her mother doing this to herself, trying not to feel the poke of cold metal, wondering if the roar in her ears was the voice of God. Trying desperately to make out his words. Failing. What she felt then wasn’t hate. It was something sad. Sorrow, perhaps, though this was a word that made Sally think of church hymns, or the book of Job. Too ancient a feeling for sixteen.

  She squeezed her eyes shut again and felt the doctor lean over her. His foot kicked the plastic bucket underneath the table. “Nurse,” he said, and his voice had a reaching tone to it that let the nurse know he needed something. Sally heard the rustle of her dress, then the sound of the bucket being dragged. That’s right. Move it over. Catch whatever’s about to spill from me.

  “I never meant for this to happen,” Sally whispered.

  “Of course not,” said Beth Anne. “You couldn’t know.”

  Sally frowned. Did she mean Sally couldn’t know she’d end up here, as in we never know what the future holds? Or that she was too stupid to know the birds and bees?

  If only she’d listened to her mother! But she was listening to her mother now. Prudy wanted her to be here, doing this. The two of them knew what it was to be unwanted.

  She steeled herself. “Carve away,” she said. It was her turn to make a joke. Horrible! Horrible! But she felt like a giant turkey on a platter. Scoop out the stuffing! Remember to be thankful! She imagined a Thanksgiving dinner with an empty seat where this child would have been. It wasn’t so different from the empty seat she’d been seeing for years—the place where her father would have been. Richard. No. Get it right. Voss. She tried to drop him into that seat. It wouldn’t work, and she suddenly realized why. Richard was the one choosing her. I hope I can get to know you better, he’d said.

  A sudden swell of tenderness moved through her. Tenderness toward all that was imperfect. The tree at Tunnel Park with the bulging, scarred bark. The way Nell sometimes backcombed her hair when she was dressing up, how even though it didn’t look good, it looked, well...sweet. Lenny’s deaf ear that made him wrinkle one side of his face and say whassat? How her Aunt Flookie always said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and how it made her funny and surprising and alive. Her mother’s fried potatoes, burned to a near-black crisp, the kind a restaurant would never serve.

  Her floaty feeling disappeared, replaced by a sharp, expectant focus. Recent events became curious objects in her hands to be turned over and inspected. Lenny coming home holding a World Series ticket in his hand, laughing. She had never seen such a wide grin on his face. It was as if a door had been cracked open, making her wonder what was on the other side. And Nell, saying what she’d said about the baby—though it was pure craziness (as unthinkable as Sally lying on a table with a mysterious doctor’s hands between her legs), it too made her wonder.

  What was she doing? Who was this she, anyway? Who did Sally want to be? Certainly not her mother, scared and alone. Waiting so long—years!!— for love, but instead being tossed aside. Why did people do that to each other? Why did they throw away love given willingly and without question? And what was that word?

  Precious.

  A prickly warmth washed over her, along with the urge to wiggle, squirm, rise up and go.

  “Can you take that thing out of me?” she said.

  “It won’t be long now,” the doctor said. From the corner of her eye she saw his hand, strong and capable, stretching toward the tray.

  “No. Stop. Can you stop?”

  Beth Anne made a clucking sound with her tongue. “There are no refunds,” she said. “And no rescheduling.”

  But Sally was sliding away, gathering the white paper gown in her hands, fistfuls of courage. Beth Anne began moving about briskly, clearly annoyed, but the doctor only stepped back and shrugged.

  “Call me when the next one’s ready,” he said.

  Sally ducked into the closet and changed so quickly that when she heard the soft thud of the padded hanger hitting the closet floor she didn’t bother turning around to pick it up. Then she was out, past the rainbow of dresses, through the heavy front door, into the yard. The sun was nearly gone, throwing its light against the clouds. The autumn air was cool and the wind was rising, raising an eddy of leaves around her ankles, fiery orange and red, rich green and tarnished gold, each leaf changing—dying even —but lovely. Lovely, too, were the branches, each one stark and bare, that let them go.

  Epilogue

  Mr. And Mrs. Gerald Ten Harmsel

  are blessed with the arrival

  of their daughter,

  Maggie Prudence

  born June 21, 1969

  at Grand Rapids Memorial Hospital

  6 lbs. 7 ozs.

  It’s hard to know what to say to a sister who practically hands over her life to you. Gosh, you shouldn’t have! How very kind. Could you pass the butter?

  What the Van Sloeten sisters will never know is that they are each thinking the same thing. Their arrangement is a leap of faith, but if either of them has doubts, they aren’t admitting it. How can one more family secret hurt when there is JOY surrounding them? If they were in church, they might raise their hands in praise. Even now little Maggie is reaching a tiny arm upward. Here I am! Look at me!

  If it’s a weekday at the Van Sloeten house, a letter might arrive from Hope College. Gizzy will pull it from his pocket at the dinner table, a devilish grin on his face. Everyone will gather around, watching Sally’s reaction.

  I thought it was a federal offense not to put it in a mailbox, she’ll say, causing him to laugh.

  It’s a stupid rule, isn’t it?

  If it’s a Sunday dinner, and warm enough to eat outside, they’ll sit around the picnic table watching while Aunt Flookie pushes little pieces of watermelon into Maggie’s mouth, her long red nails flashing like daggers while Nell tries not to cringe. Lenny will show up late, Richard likely on his heels. Seeing him, Prudy will hand Nell a glass of lemonade to give him. Go ahead, she’ll say, motioning with her head. She’ll excuse herself and go inside, where she’ll stand at the window watching, waiting patiently for him to finish and leave.

  Returning, she’ll ask the three of them how’s your father? It’s a glossing over, perhaps. It’s also a question that, stripped of an old and tiresome weight, causes something in each of them to rise. Like a muscle, once clenched, releasing and expanding with vital blood.

  Richard will come by often enough. Once or twice, he’ll try too hard, calling Hello loved ones! from across the yard. Sally will be reminded of the way Lenny and Nell once said this as a joke. She has always known that they laughed because they wanted it to mean something. Well, why can’t it? It’s
more than hello. Easier than I love you. It’s something more obscure. Some space in between, found only when you choose to look.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank Jerry Cleaver and The Writer’s Loft workshop in Chicago for helping bring these pages to life. Thanks also go to Cyndi Dale’s Write of Passage class for lighting my way. And Dr. Larry Stoler, Katie Oberlin, Barbara Starke, and Cynthia Hutchison have my gratitude for not only calling me a writer, but making me believe.

  About the Author

  Tammy Letherer was born in Holland, Michigan and now lives in Chicago with her three children. She writes fiction and non-fiction, and can be found at TammyLetherer.com. This is her first novel.